The Iscariot Agenda (Vatican Knights)

by Jones, Rick

  Against the far wall was a safe that was not concealed. After playing with the dial and opening the door, Jeff pulled six bundles of cash that Kimball assumed to be $10,000 packs, for a total of $60,000.

  “What about all this?” Kimball said, waving his hand in indication of the multitude of weapons adorning the walls. “Are you just gonna leave them here?”

  Jeff didn’t answer him, at least not right away. The man stopped packing and stood idle, his face growing incredibly long over the past few hours. With mechanical slowness he leaned over the table and placed his knuckles on the top for support. His eyes were staring at nothing in particular. But Kimball could tell that his mind was active.

  “Stan wasn’t too bright,” Jeff began. “Instead, he was all guts and glory, always willing to take that first step when no one else was willing to do so, including myself.” His face began to crack, a slight quiver of the chin. “When we were kids in school there was this kid who was huge for his age. I mean really big, you know.” His voice began to crack. “And one day he tried to hit me up for money. When I was reaching into my pocket for change Stan would have none of it. I mean, here was my brother, a guy much smaller than me, and he took this kid on. Well, Stan ended up getting smashed down to paste, and the kid ended up with my money anyway. But I never saw my brother the same way again—at least not as my little brother.” He turned to Kimball, his eyes glassy with the sting of tears. “Day after day this kid came after me for money, and day after day Stan stood up for me and took the beatings instead. So here we were, me and my little brother, who was much smaller than me, showing off guts I wished I had.”

  Jeff drew away from the table and began to pace the room in a grid. “Then one day,” he went on, “my little brother took me to this tiny hole-in-the-wall shop. But what he took me to was much more than that. It was a martial arts studio. But it was the beginning of us as brothers working as a team not to be fooled with. So we grew together, became inseparable. Then one day when this kid came at me for my money, I knew I was ready and stood my ground with my brother at my side, all guts and glory Stan was. Needless to say my brother and I beat this kid so bloody because we wanted to make a statement. And a statement we made. Nobody ever messed with us again. And you know what? We loved that feeling of toughness, that feeling of invincibility. So we became the very thing that we abhorred most. We became bullies who were no different from the kid we destroyed that day on the playground. And because of him we became something else. And then one day, when we were ready, we went back to destroy our creator.”

  Kimball stepped forward. “I’m sorry for your loss, Jeff. I am.”

  Jeff’s face suddenly became hardened, the muscles in his jaw working. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me, you son of a bitch. Don’t . . . you . . . dare.” Jeff galvanized himself into action and placed more essentials in the duffel bag.

  And then, at the top of his lungs and driven by rage, “DON’T YOU DARE!” And then he broke, sobbing like that bullied little boy he once was on that playground.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Vatican City

  Cardinal Marcello lightly knocked on the pontiff’s door. He was wearing a black cassock with scarlet buttons, piping and fascia. On top of his head sat a scarlet zucchetto.

  “Come in.” The pope’s voice, like always, was warm and comforting, a genuine smile on his face.

  When Cardinal Marcello stepped inside the papal office, he saw the pontiff sitting at his desk with a hand held out toward one of the two empty seats in front of him. “Please,” he said.

  Marcello sat down.

  Then, from Pius: “And how are you today, Constantine? Good I hope?”

  The cardinal nodded and smiled. “I’m fine, Your Eminence. Yourself?”

  “Considering the circumstances, I guess I’m as well as can be expected.” The pontiff leaned forward, clasped his hands together into a fisted joining of prayer, and gently placed them on the desktop. His smile never wavered as his demeanor remained consistently warm and inviting.

  “Something on your mind, Your Holiness?”

  Pope Pius bowed his head, the single act of nodding sufficing as an affirmation to the cardinal’s query. “There are rumblings within the Church,” he finally told him, “that Cardinal Angullo’s camp may be uniting with your own in order to secure your position as the next pope.”

  “Your Eminence, with all due respect and barring the state of your condition, it is my right as cardinal to seek out the coveted position that will be left vacant by your passing.”

  The pope raised his hand. “Don’t get me wrong, Constantine. You have every right to politick for my role—as does anyone else. Without ambition there can never be progress.”

  “Then I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “To follow your ambitions is a wonderful thing,” he continued. “It promotes us all to be better. But how you pursue those ambitions and what you leave in your wake is a matter that’s altogether different.”

  The brow above the cardinal’s left eye arced questioningly. “I’m still not following.”

  The pontiff leaned back into his seat, his smile washing away. “The rumblings,” he said evenly. “There are rumblings coming from the camps that for you to secure your role as pontiff, then you are willing to offer recompense. Tell me this is not the case?”

  Cardinal Marcello betrayed nothing with so much as a facial tic, or the rising or lowering of an octave in his voice as he spoke. “Your Eminence, politicking does not come without making allies through whatever means that are readily available.”

  “Then it’s true? Instead of winning the seat by the merits of your past actions as a cleric, you’ve decided to take it by pure ambition by compensating others for the favor of their vote?”

  “It’s politicking,” he returned.

  “What you politick, Constantine, is your skills. You bring to the table what you have done in the past and show what it is that you can do in the future to better the Church, not yourself. It’s always been about the Church.”

  “And there lies my ambitions,” he countered. “I seek to better the Church.”

  For a moment they stared at each other. There was no animosity or underlying subterfuge by either man. They were simply coming square with one another regarding their philosophies.

  The cardinal then settled back into his chair and tented his hands so that his fingertips pointed ceilingward. “May I be candid,” he asked, “since we’re talking about rumblings?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s said that you have spoken about the Church holding secrets only the pope can know about. So my question is: Is this true?”

  “Then it’s obvious to me that you have spoken to Cardinal Angullo.”

  “Then it is true. The Church does hold secrets.”

  “If you become pope, then you will learn that secrets are sometimes better left untold.”

  “The reason for secrets—with all due respect, Your Eminence—is that there is usually a certain degree of immorality tied to them.”

  “Or perhaps they can cause controversies that often lead to division rather than unity.”

  “Semantics,” he quickly responded.

  “Semantics or not, we all know that God does not favor acts of immorality. If you begin your term as pontiff with an immoral act of obtaining a position by recompense rather than merit, then you will continue to commit and justify immoral acts and cast them off as a necessity for the sake of the Church. And this cannot be, Constantine.”

  “However, Your Eminence, you sit here and say that it’s quite all right for you to justify the secrets of the Church, even though they may bear a certain degree of immorality to them. If that’s the case, then I guess one man’s morality is another man’s immorality.”

  The pontiff’s face had slowly gravitated to that of a puppy-dog hang. The conversation had grown to a bitter display of counter offensives of one man’s vision against the other, which he wanted to avoid.
And his lobbying efforts had failed miserably. If anything, his action of calling the cardinal to his chamber adversely affected Vessucci’s chances of securing the highest seat in the land. He suddenly realized this with grave regret.

  “This secret,” began the cardinal, “are you willing to tell me?”

  The pope sat silent and studied the man in front of him. Should he become pope, then he would have to know about the Vatican Knights. “No,” he finally said. “Perhaps someday you will understand the necessity for such secrets.”

  “Not if they hold something immoral to them.”

  “There is nothing immoral to the secret I bear. Just controversy.”

  “I see.” The cardinal got to his feet. “Unless there is anything more, Your Eminence, I have matters to attend to.”

  The pontiff stood and held out his ring finger, proffering the Fisherman’s Ring. The cardinal dutifully kissed it, bowed in honor of Pius, and exited the chamber.

  Pope Pius slid slowly down into his chair, truly concerned about the fate of the Vatican Knights.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Baltimore, Maryland

  When Jeff finished packing the duffel bag and with Kimball standing idly by, the former assassin hoisted the duffel over his shoulder and stood before his former teammate, their eyes locking on to each other not so much as macho posturing, but knowing this would be the last time they saw each other, the last of a dying breed.

  “I know it didn’t seem like it, but it was kinda good to see you again,” he told Kimball. “You stirred up old memories. Good memories. And I’m not talking about the killing, either. I’m talking about the times we all hung out together as a family, since we didn’t have anyone besides ourselves. You, me, my brother, Hawk—everyone.” The corners of his lips rounded upward into a marginal smile. “Even that crazy Irishman,” he added. And then the smile was gone.

  Kimball took a step forward and undid the arms he had crossed around his chest. “Where will you go?” he asked.

  Jeff headed quickly out of the Vault and made his way to the stairwell. Kimball followed close behind.

  “I have accounts all over the world, which is to say that I’m set for the rest of my life. So I’ll probably go somewhere nice. Somewhere tropical where the women don’t have to wear their bikini tops because the weather’s too nice and it’s not against the law.” And then, with far more seriousness in the tone of his voice: “Somewhere where he can’t get to me.”

  Kimball knew he was referring to the assassin. “Stay safe.”

  “Trust me. I plan to.”

  When they reached the top level of the shop Jeff placed the duffel bag on the floor and went to the keypad next to the security door. With lightning strikes of his fingers, he tapped in a code against the numeric keys and the bars retracted from the door, unlocking it.

  As the door automatically opened with mechanical slowness behind him, he surveyed the shop one last moment, absorbing the moments he and his brother shared here. It was dirty. It was dingy. But it was theirs and it was home.

  Without turning to Kimball, he said, “And what about you? Are you going back to the Church?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you happy there?”

  “I am.”

  Jeff closed his eyes, the download of this memory complete. Then: “I’m glad for you,” he finally told him.

  As Jeff stood in the doorway facing the truck and with his back to Kimball, he said, “We don’t stand a chance, do we?”

  “There’s always a chance.”

  Even though Kimball could not see it from where he stood, Jeff feigned a smile. “Well, at least these guns in my duffel will double my chances against him, don’t you think?”

  Kimball didn’t answer.

  So Jeff answered for him. “Yeah, I didn’t think you’d agree with that,” he said.

  Jeff went into the alleyway, unlocked and opened the door to his pickup, tossed his duffel bag into the rear of the truck, got inside, situated himself, and then rolled the window down. For a long moment he sat there and stared straight ahead, saying nothing. But before too long he faced Kimball with his hard-lined features bearing no sense of emotion—good, bad or indifferent. “One thing’s for absolute certain,” he finally said. “No matter what you’re doing with the Church or how long you wear the collar, I’ll see you again, Kimball. Only I’ll see you in Hell. And that’s a fact.”

  With that Jeff toggled the button and the electric window rolled up between them.

  #

  After the assassin fired the shot that killed Stanley Hardwick, he calmly broke down the rifle with quick efficiency, then headed for his vehicle and engaged the GPS monitoring system just in case Kimball and Jeff Hardwick decided to alter their return course, which they didn’t.

  Without a doubt he knew they had killed the senator, an added plus to the entire agenda. And then he followed them right to their Baltimore door with them most likely coming to the realization that there was a GPS frequency module attached to the vehicle.

  But that wasn’t the only thing attached.

  From his vantage point on a wrought-iron landing of a fire escape less than a half a block away, the assassin had a clear view of the pickup.

  In his hand was a metal box, silver, about the size of a cigarette pack. When he saw Jeff leave the store and head for the truck, the assassin raised the four-inch aerial, lifted the protective plastic covering the button, and placed the pad of his thumb on the button.

  With the patience of a saint, he waited.

  #

  As the window of the pickup rolled up, Kimball stepped closer to the doorway, closer to the alley, their eyes locking for the last time.

  Standing at the threshold, Kimball’s mind toiled with the thought of seeing Jeffrey Hardwick in Hell. And he had to wonder: Was the man right in assessing Kimball’s mission for deliverance something unattainable? Had he already secured his fate by the actions of his past? Certainly this was what Jeff was alluding to. But Kimball had come to realize long ago that for every two steps taken toward redemption, there will always be someone there to knock him back. But that was all right since success did not come without struggle. His reaction to Jeff’s statement was to simply smile back.

  #

  When the window rolled up to its full extent, Jeff reached forward to place the key into the ignition. Attached to the dash, however, by tape, was a scroll. Jeff peeled it away and began to unfurl the material. As he did, he saw that it was a photo of his old unit, the faces clearly circled in red, the letters clearly visible. In the red circle surrounding his face was the letter ‘O.’

  The assassin was here—inside the cab!

  Oh, no!

  Jeff tossed the photo aside and immediately rushed to panic as he tried to disengage the seatbelt to exit the vehicle, the one-time elite commando whimpering like an abandoned puppy.

  His hands moved quickly, the thumb pressing the latch.

  Nothing.

  He then pulled at the belt, slapped the button, tugged at the strap. And then his heart began to race and thump, his blood coursing with speed induced by adrenaline. The roar of blood-rushing thunder now reached his ears, causing him to grow deaf to anything beyond the center of his world. Panic was setting in, his sight going red at the periphery and closing in.

  The latch was jammed.

  And he saw the reason why.

  There was a piece of metal jamming the mechanism. It was rigged that once the belt was clipped in, then it was nearly impossible to undo.

  And then he remembered.

  His knife!

  But the moment his fingers touched the hilt he heard an audible click—and then the whine of something gearing up. It was a sound he heard many times before with explosive devices.

  Now it had become the sound of his life coming to a quick and bloody end.

  Taking his fingers off the hilt of his knife, Jeffrey Hardwick turned and looked out the window one last time. The last image he would ever
take in would be that of Kimball Hayden standing in the doorway of the surplus store. And oddly enough a single thought came to his mind: The priest who is not a priest.

  With that his world became a white-hot flash as flames poured into the truck from the ventilation systems, engulfing him, the incredible heat quickly building to the point that the pickup’s tempered glass exploded outward in all directions. And then the enormous explosion— the yellow mass of hot flame boiling upward into a fireball, the vehicle then taking flight and performing a fiery cartwheel before coming down as scorched metal, the flames continuing to fan outward from the charred debris.

  From the sky a flaming photo seesawed back to Earth, the edges burning inward. When it landed on the ground the flames consumed its entirety until there was nothing left but ashes that would eventually be cast aside by the wind.

  If it had remained, anyone would have seen the red circle surrounding the face of the last man in the photo.

  #

  Time can be measured in milliseconds and perhaps even quicker—and sometimes much too fast for the human mind to react, even in self-preservation.

  As Kimball stood in the doorway mulling over Jeff’s parting comment, he observed the former assassin pick something up inside the vehicle’s cab—a piece of paper by the looks of it—and examined it. Suddenly he galvanized himself by moving with a sudden quickness, his hands searching for the release of the belt, then pounding the assemblage—once, twice, three times.

  And then he stopped.

  He turned to Kimball, his face and eyes bearing the telltale signs of what Kimball thought he would never see on the face of a Hardwick brother. It was the look of a man realizing that his life was about to end and there was nothing in his power to grant him a reprieve. All that was left was undeniable fear.